The Adventure of the Surrogate Spy
by sagredo
Summary: What do a stolen Stradivarius, a kidnapped violinist, and Mycroft Holmes have in common? It might sound like a joke, but Sherlock isn't laughing. T for language.
1. Prelude

To Sherlock Holmes, it is always: 'The Case of the Stradivarius - Dammit.' The two words seem to him to be inseparably hyphenated, so that the violin in question is never referred to without the addition of the epithet. The events of the case which surrounded it have set it apart from its brother instruments in his mind, and now rather than a mere Stradivarius, it is a 'Stradivarius - dammit.' Indeed, I have never heard him speak of it by any other name.

Except, perhaps as: 'Kendry's Stradivarius - dammit.'

Addison Kendry was the violinist who, in the winter of 1888, rather indiscreetly misplaced the instrument which would come to be known to Holmes and I by such a colorful appellation. This indiscretion was compounded by that fact that the violin was not his own, but - as is the case with most instruments of its caliber, Holmes informed me - had been loaned to him by a private collector for his debut as the concert master of the London Symphony Orchestra.

What was more, if these difficulties were not enough, Kendry himself had gone missing, shortly after reporting the theft of the violin.

These events combined to form a disaster quite sufficient to see the managers of the Symphony, the owners of the violin - and improbably, as it seemed then, Mycroft Holmes - seated over steaming cups of tea in our sitting room early one blustery, bitterly cold morning.

The wind gusted against the window panes, making them rattle, as we all arranged ourselves around the fire and the tea was served. Holmes, bereft of a seat now that our sitting room was filled to its capacity, seemed to prefer to place some distance between himself and the close gathering forming about the fire anyways, and chose to lean against the wall beside the deal table, arms crossed over the front of his dressing gown.

The orchestra managers, Messers Hallet and Ferriman, took the basket chair and Holmes' armchair, while I retained my own.

Ferriman had presumably been in the business longer than his associate, his hair and neat, slightly twirling mustache steel grey while his companion's deep walnut coloring spoke of lesser years. Ferriman, also, was attired as was traditionally fitting for a man of his profession, dark cutaway coat and pinstripe trousers hinting only discreetly at the drama of a musical occupation, while Hallet's dress showed more of a nod to the aesthetic style.

Across from them, the owners of the violin perched on the settee. Mr. and Mrs. Benedict Alveston were clearly very wealthy, and something in their manner seemed to indicate that even the firmly middle-class locale of Marylbone was a descent for them. Mr. Alveston was a thin, nervous man; his small, round face dominated by a large, even rounder pair of spectacles rimmed in gold wire. His wife sat beside him, delicately sipping her tea with a certain hesitancy, as though unsure as to whether or not she might be somehow tainted by the inferior china.

In the midst of these, Mycroft Holmes, unwilling to stand, himself, had drawn up a chair from the luncheon table.

It was the managers who broke the silence, punctuated as it had been by only the rattling window panes and the sipping of tea, first.

"Thank you for agreeing to hear our case at such short notice, Mr. Holmes," Ferriman began. "I'm sure I speak for Mr. Hallet as well as myself when I say that Mr. Kendry's absence has certainly been difficult to bear."

Hallet, at this, nodded his assent. "The Symphony is playing Tartini's concerto in D minor in a matter of weeks," he added. "We have been unable to rehearse it properly without a soloist."

"I was under the impression that Mr. Kendry's debut with the Symphony was not to be for some time," Holmes replied.

"Officially, you are correct," Ferriman said. "Unofficially, our intention was that he should perform the lesser pieces with the Symphony, until his tenure was to be officially announced, three months hence, when -"

"When Tchaikovsky's new concerto is on the bill," Holmes muttered darkly.

Ferriman and Hallet exchanged a glance, quite clearly taken aback. "How could you know that?" the latter demanded. "It has not been advertised."

"I know it because I can see the sheet music protruding from the pocket of my brother's coat," said Holmes dubiously.

Mycroft, with a long-suffering sigh, as though he were accustomed to this sort of suspicion from his younger sibling, drew a slim folio from within his coat as though on queue. He held it out for his brother to take, but the younger Holmes made no move to do so.

"Why are you giving me that?" he asked, one dark brow arching distrustfully. "It will neither help me in discovering the whereabouts of the violin or the violinist."

"Then the obvious conclusion," Mycroft replied with the air of a schoolmaster who's patience is tried, "is that we wish you to do neither."

Holmes looked vaguely annoyed, but did not so much as uncross his arms to accept the sheet music. "Then I am afraid I must confess to being completely in the dark as to why I have been consulted."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother's impertinence, and offered the music to me instead, which I took with some curiosity.

"Are we correct in our knowledge," Ferriman spoke again as I leafed through the pages of the concerto, "that you yourself play a Stradivarius, Mr. Holmes?"

"You are not," Holmes replied tersely, clearly eager to question his brother further and annoyed at the interruption, "My violin is a Vuillaume*."

He turned to address Mycroft again, but was stymied when Ferriman continued: "I don't suppose it would be out of the question, were we to ask to hear it?"

"It would most certainly be out of the question," Holmes snapped. "My services as a consulting detective are for hire - my skills as a musician are immaterial. I'm afraid that if the purpose of this interview is in reference to the latter, I must bid you all good morning."

"_Sherlock_," Mycroft scolded, "there is no call for haste. Mr. Ferriman has very good reason for wishing to hear your violin."

"And I suppose," Holmes rejoined, "that if the Alvestons do not wish me to recover their instrument, that they are only present to confirm that mine is similar to theirs in tone?"

"Quite!," tittered Mr. Alveston, with an abruptness that fit his fidgeting manner. "That is very good." He smiled as though he had been privy to the performance of some original parlor trick.

"It is apparent," Holmes continued as though the man had not spoken, "that you plan to replace Mr. Kendry, and you wish his replacement to play my violin. However, since it is not a Stradivarius and there are certainly other instruments available to you, I fail to understand your insistence in the matter."

"What you fail to understand," Mycroft corrected, "no doubt out of your own sheer obstinacy, as evidence is by no means unavailable to you, is that we wish to replace Mr. Kendry with _you_."

The effect of this statement was to throw the room into silence.

The managers as well as the Alvestons regarded Holmes expectantly. Mycroft had fixed him with a supercilious look. As for Holmes himself, the expression of annoyance had been wiped from his face to be replaced by one of utter disbelief.

"Forgive me," he announced to the room at last, "but this must be a joke."

"Not at all," chirped Mycroft. "You are similar enough to Mr. Kendry in height and build that, seen from the stage, the differences between you and he should pass unnoticed. You are a violinist of similar skill - do not make that face, Sherlock - and your instrument may well pass as a Stradivarius. All that we are asking is that you play with the orchestra in his place, until -"

"Until Tchaikovsky's concerto..." Holmes frowned, eyes distant and troubled, as one contemplating the event of his execution. He shook himself at length, clearing his throat to ask his brother: "Perhaps now you will be so good as to explain how Mr. Kendry managed to entangle himself with government matters sufficiently to draw you from your breakfast table prematurely this morning?"

Mycroft scowled, but chose to overlook the subtle barb. "The truth of Mr. Kendry's disappearance," he said, "is something which is not to be spoken of, outside this room. Messers Hallet and Ferriman have already been informed of the true state of affairs - but I reiterate, gentleman, the need for absolute secrecy.

"It was the theft of the Stradivarius by which we were initially alerted to Mr. Kendry's clandestine activities. He made a rather sloppy attempt at reaching out to his contacts soon after it was stolen, no doubt in a panicked effort to regain the instrument. My department became aware of this -"

"And now he is languishing in a cell somewhere that does not officially exist," Holmes muttered.

Mycroft's scowl deepened. "Indeed. It had become quite clear to us that Mr. Kendry was a spy. For whom he was working, I'm afraid, is information I am not at liberty to divulge. Suffice it to say that his capture and the information we have acquired as a result has placed before us a distinctly valuable opportunity. Dr. Watson - the concerto, if you would be so good?"

I passed this over and Mycroft carefully cleared aside the tea things to spread the pages on the table between us.

"As you all are aware," he continued, "Tchaikovsky's concerto is a very recent work - so recent that the Symphony's performance of it shall be only the third in Europe. Thus, one may easily introduce subtle variations, such that they should never be recognized -"

"Unless one knew to look for them," Holmes interrupted. "Kendry was to relay a code written into the concerto?"

"At last you begin to catch on," Mycroft sighed. "Fortunately, we have been able to break this code, and use it to compose, if you will, our own variation on the concerto. Kendry's contacts will be attending the performance, at which time you, Sherlock, will perform in Kendry's place, and they will hear the coded message as we have re-written it. The point, of course, is to deliver them misinformation. It is crucial that they believe they are receiving this information from Kendry himself. Therefore, Sherlock, you must take up his position with the orchestra immediately, before they are given any more opportunity to learn of his absence."

"There is of course," Holmes frowned, looking, I thought, rather uncomfortable, "the slight difficulty of my mastering the concerto quickly."

"You underrate your skills, as usual," Mycroft rejoined. "However, I cannot but agree with you that time is short - which is to say, that if we are to take advantage of this opportunity, time is insufficient to locate another man as well suited to our purposes as you. So - knowing you to be as much a patriot as I, and seeing as you have no other equally pressing work to occupy you at present, I am sure you will agree to help?" With this appeal, he gathered up the pages of the concerto and moved again to hand them to his brother.

Holmes regarded them for a long moment in silence, arms crossed and brows knit in contemplation. At last he looked up to catch his brother's eye. I thought, for a moment, that I saw the beginning's of a refusal in his manner, but as his gaze met Mycroft's something seemed to pass between the brothers, unspoken, and the demurral I had sensed vanished. Holmes sighed, and snatched the pages of the concerto in a quick, sharp movement.

"Very well. I will do as you ask - but only because the matter presents some features of interest. Not because I am English and so are you or any similarly vapid reason."

"Ever the patriot, as I said," quipped Mycroft. "Now, the only thing that remains to be seen, or rather heard, is the tone of your violin."

"If it does not suit, I suppose I might be excused from this endeavor?" Holmes asked, glancing over the concerto he had accepted with a dogged expression.

"If it does not suit," said Mycroft, "another instrument is easy to obtain, as you yourself pointed out."

Thus it was that the occupants of the sitting room were treated to an impromptu recital. I recognized the piece Holmes played as Paganini's eleventh caprice, which I knew to be a favorite of his. To my ear, the performance was flawless, and Hallet and Ferriman seemed very pleased at the revelation of their new first chair's technical ability. The Alvestons, too, seemed satisfied as to the quality and tone of the violin. I, however, who knew Holmes and his playing well, could not help but remark upon the fact that something of his usual expressiveness was missing from his interpretation of the piece. I said as much to him, after the final accord was made and our guests had gone.

He sighed, removing the pages of Tchaikovsky's concerto from where they had been left on the settee to toss them carelessly over the abandoned tea things before collapsing onto the cushions. "Sorry to have disappointed you, Watson."

"It is not that," I replied quickly, disappointed rather to have become the target of the asperity that was no doubt meant for his brother. I set about rescuing the sheet music from being ruined by tea-stains with equal hurriedness.

"Then what?" Holmes demanded tiredly, raking a hand through his hair.

"Well," I considered, "It is just that, if I did not know better, I would have said you were nervous."

Holmes looked at me suddenly, and seemed to stare for a long moment, grey eyes hooded and inscrutable. At last he sank back against the sofa cushions with a second sigh.

"If you must know," he admitted, "I was nervous."

"Really?" I asked stacking the sheet music together before rising to pin it to the mantle with the jack knife. "Whatever for?"

"Logically it makes little sense, doesn't it?" Holmes muttered, slipping one hand behind his head and fidgeting with the tie of his dressing gown with the other. "Why should I find playing a piece which I am free to choose, to such a small and private audience, daunting?"

I considered this question myself, turning to lean against the mantle and tucking my hands into my trouser pockets thoughtfully.

"Perhaps," I proposed at length, "it is a daunting thing for any man to be called upon to bare his soul to an audience of strangers."

Holmes was silent for an instant, and I thought, briefly, that I had struck a chord.

I was slightly nettled to discover that he had, in fact, been restraining laughter when at last he could not resist breaking into a chortle.

"Oh, Watson!" he smiled. "The romantic streak in you is really indefatigable."

With that, he fairly leapt from the sofa, snatched the concerto I had just taken care to arrange from the mantle, and disappeared with this and his violin into his room. I was left to scowl, arms crossed and mustache no doubt bristling in remonstrance, at his closed door.

At least, I consoled myself as I rang for Mrs. Hudson to clear up the tea, my comment, though I might have preferred it to be taken seriously, seemed to have lifted his spirits. I had heard him speak of Tchaikovsky's concerto several times since the news of its European debut, and understood it to be a virtuosically challenging piece. It only stood to reason that Holmes should be disconcerted at the prospect of having to master it quickly.

Although, I reassured myself, it was good to know that the difficulty of the piece was likely to be the most challenging aspect of the case we would encounter. In fact, I reflected, the situation seemed almost ideal - Holmes was occupied with a case which interested him, and yet posed no more risk to his health and promised to hold no more danger than did playing the violin.

Mycroft Holmes himself seemed assured of this fact.

Little did I suspect that even he did not comprehend the breadth of the web of deceit we were about to uncover.

_* For the origin of Holmes' violin, see 'Theme and Variations' chapter 18._

_Additionally - I have no idea when Tchaikovsky's concerto for violin was written, and have never heard that Tartini piece. Apologies for any inconsistencies._


	2. Dissonance

That Sherlock Holmes' new profession, however temporary, wrought a drastic change not only in himself but over the entire household in the following weeks was not to be denied.

Of course, filling the role of Addison Kendry, as any role must, obliged an alteration in certain minor details concerning his own person, but even beyond this it quickly became apparent to me that part of this transformation ran deeper. Although Holmes the professional musician bore a very close resemblance to Holmes the amateur detective, spending every waking moment playing his violin for a matter of weeks seemed to change him.

His eyes, when he was not devoting his scant spare moments between rehearsals to satisfying his curiosity concerning the Alveston's missing Stradivarius, were softer. He gestured more with his long, slender hands when he spoke, as though their near constant employment in flying over strings and handling a bow had made them freer. That it was now a rare occasion that our rooms were not filled with music had seemed to give him a new appreciation for silence, as an artist for the negative space in a picture, so that not once following his first week with the Symphony did I hear him slam a door with unwarranted force or bellow at Mrs. Hudson. Even his manner of dress, though in fairness it is difficult to say whether this came about purposefully as part of adopting his character as Mr. Kendry, had become less severe.

In sum, Sherlock Holmes had mellowed.

So fascinated was I by this new incarnation of my friend that before long I began to be sorry that I was not seeing more of him. I heard him, certainly. He was not often at home, being frequently engaged at the concert hall where the Symphony played, or, when he was not, chasing down some lead concerning the Alveston's violin – but when he was in it was usually only the sound of his violin through his bedroom door that told me so. I never tired of hearing him play – under constant practice, after all, even skills which were not inconsiderable to begin with can only improve. But, nevertheless, I began to wish that it were possible to spend more time in his company than the rare meal we managed to take together allowed. I was, of course, also missing the consulting detective, as I had grown accustomed to his lectures on the varied topics which caught his interest, and his deductions, and lately was hearing none of them.

So it was that one evening, as I sat before the fire warming myself after having returned from visiting a patient, that I was very gratified to hear the music from Holmes' room stop, and shortly thereafter see the man himself appear in the sitting room with his violin case tucked under his arm.

"Holmes," I greeted him in, lowering the newspaper I'd been perusing. "Hello."

"Hello, Watson," he returned with the faintest of smiles, "you almost sound surprised to see me."

"I am," I confessed, as he turned to take an apple from the sideboard and slip it into his pocket. "I thought you would be playing all evening again. You haven't broken a string, I hope?"

"No," he replied, crossing to his desk and brushing his dark hair, which he now had taken to wearing without pomade, back from his forehead as he glanced through his stacks of sheet music. "Nothing like it. I must dessert you for a rehearsal once again, I'm afraid."

"Oh," I sighed, failing to entirely conceal my disappointment. "Well...good luck, then, dear fellow."

Holmes paused, having found his sheet music and now halfway through shrugging on his overcoat, and turned to me with a strange expression. His grey eyes, expressive when he allowed them to be though they had always been, if anything had become the more open and direct for the recent change in him. I almost would have thought that he was sorry to cut our interview so short himself. "Thank you, Watson," he said, and slowly turned to go.

It was then that a fortuitous notion occurred to me.

"Holmes?" I asked. He looked back over his shoulder. "Would it be entirely out of the question for me to accompany you?"

To my gratification, he appeared to brighten subtly at the suggestion. "Not at all," he said. "There is often a small crowd sitting in on rehearsals. In fact, I should appreciate your company – your thoughts on what you hear may be of value to me."

"In that case, I will just get my coat," I declared with a grin. Shortly thereafter I was seated beside him in a hansom as we rattled off to the concert hall, and was pleased to listen the entire way to a treatise on resonance, normal modes, and the subtle ways in which the temperature outdoors was capable of changing the sound of a stringed instrument.

When we arrived, we parted company, Holmes to the musician's entrance and thence backstage, and I to take a seat in the sparsely populated hall with the other, more dedicated patrons.

Most of the members of the orchestra were already present on the stage. The entrance of the rest proceeded in concert fashion – the remaining members trickling in until all were seated. Then the concert master – Holmes – walked in from the wings with his violin and sheet music tucked under his arm.

A scattering of polite applause greeted him as he crossed the honey-colored boards, shining under the limelights, which he accepted with a bow and a gracious smile befitting a performer. He placed his sheet music on the stand at the first chair's position, then remained standing to tuck his violin beneath his chin, and played an A. Once the orchestra had tuned under his direction, the conductor made his entrance. I noted, with no small interest, that the applause he received seemed somewhat more heartfelt than had my friend's.

To my dismay, I was shortly to learn why.

The orchestra rehearsed the pieces they were to perform the night that Tartini's concerto headed the playbill. The first two works were unknown to me and, although they were enjoyable, allowed no opportunity for any one instrument to distinguish itself – particularly not a string. It was with great excitement, therefore, that I anticipated the final piece – the concerto – as I knew it to be written for the violin, and the soloist would of course be the first chair.

When the time came, Holmes rose to stand behind the conductor, facing the audience. He appeared to me to cut a very dramatic figure in his role as a musician – a tall, stark shape in his dark suit against the yellow hardwood, the varnish of the instrument in his deft white hands glowing subtly under the stage lights.

When he struck the first note of the opening solo, however, it seemed immediately clear to me that all must not have been right.

My brow was knit in perplexity before long. It was not that he played out of tune, or made any error – his execution of the piece, technically speaking, seemed to my attentive if untrained ear without flaw. In fact, his playing might have been called robotically precise and correct.

In fact, it might have been called mechanical.

I cupped my chin in one hand and brushed a fingertip over my mustache thoughtfully as I watched and listened. On the stage, Holmes stared into the middle distance, bowing accurately but not expressively, fingers hardly flying over the strings but striking them dispassionately, as though they had been the keys of a typewriter. I found myself frowning as the piece concluded.

Sherlock Holmes plays the violin in such a manner that, no matter how heartless his actions or what new levels of callousness he might pioneer, as long as I had known him I had never doubted the depth and profundity of the soul he possessed in secret. It was more than once, when he would deny this certainty of mine, that I had insisted to him I had seen him laugh, seen him weep, and seen him in love, because I had seen him play his violin. He has a tendency to shudder most affectedly at the 'unwarranted crude emotionalism' I ascribe to musical expression, but I know him to be more sensitive to precisely this than I. For weeks I had been listening to him do nothing but attain new heights of his art when I heard him play at baker street. And yet, in a concert hall before an audience, accompanied by an orchestra, when his talents ought to have been shown to their best advantage – I could not but think that I might as well have been listening to a phonograph recording.

The conclusion of the performance from which I had hoped so much was anticlimactic at best. The applause of the audience seemed dry, in a way that had nothing to do with the size of the crowd that could be attracted by a mere rehearsal. Holmes exchanged a stiff bow with the conductor, something in the manner of the latter suggesting the doggedness with which one copes with a continuing frustration, and then strode from the stage.

For my part, I leapt from my seat and hurried out of the concert hall to meet him.

I found him in the alley behind the hall, near the musician's entrance, smoking a cigarette and chatting amiably with a fair-haired young man whom I believed I recognized from the viola section.

"Well, Watson," Holmes smiled as I approached, taking the cigarette from his lips with the hand not clutching a violin case and exhaling smoke into the frosty air, "what did you think?"

The look on my face must have made it clear enough, because his smile was exchanged for a frown before I could think of how to express and answer, and he said: "Ah. I see."

The violist, sensing a change in the atmosphere, prudently wished my friend and I good night, and departed.

Holmes sighed, grinding his cigarette out against the brickwork before dropping it onto the cobbles at our feet. "I detect that you would articulate much the same criticisms of my playing as do my conductor and my second chair," he frowned.

"I would not criticize your playing in the slightest," I replied. "But what I heard a moment ago was not your playing."

He sighed again, and turned to walk towards the main road. I followed, and we strolled together in silence for some moments.

"Are you afraid to play in front of an audience?" I asked at length.

Holmes scoffed. "You have just seen me play in front of an audience. Did I give any indication that I was afraid?"

"Not explicitly," I shrugged. "But your playing seemed very...reserved. Actually, do you know – now that I think of it, you sounded like you did when you played for Hallet, Ferriman and the Alvestons - when your brother brought you this case. Well - you sounded worse, in fact."

"I thank you for the review," my companion snapped.

"Holmes," I scolded gently, and heaved a sigh myself. "Why ever you play like an automaton when anyone other than myself and Mrs. Hudson can hear is probably none of my business. But you know you cannot play that piece like that at your concert."

This seemed to cut him to the quick. He frowned deeply, glancing down to study his shoes for some time as we walked. "I know," he acknowledged dourly at last.

"Then why did you play it so carelessly just now?" I demanded. "Was it that this was only a rehearsal?"

Holmes did not reply, but looked at me sidelong in a manner which derided me wordlessly for even suggesting as much, while simultaneously defying me to press the matter any further.

Knowing far better, I did not. Reaching the main road, we hailed a cab, and shared the ride back to Baker street in silence.


End file.
